Liar, Liar
by Schuyler Lola
Summary: She's never considered them friends, in any sense of the word. Now, after all this...she's telling him things that only friends should know. All because of this crazy game. ChaseCameron.
1. Escaping

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to House. This is in effect for any and all chapters of this story.

This is set somewhere around the end of the third season, an AU-ish spin on the whole Chase/Cameron relationship. Or beginning of the real relationship, so to speak. It starts after "Family."

So, enjoy. Feedback is appreciated.

Chapter 1: Escaping

Her sneaker hits the frozen pavement, creating a thud that sends a shudder through her body. Her teeth jar together. She picks up the pace, avoiding the puddle of ice, but going through the frozen leaves, sad remnants of a forgotten autumn.

The days of colourful leaves seems distant to Cameron. She doesn't remember anything from the fall. Days of differentials and tests and clinic duty and exhaustion have blurred together in her mind. Months of this routine that she's set out have dulled her memory. She doesn't count her life by years anymore, she counts it by cases. By lives saved and lives lost. By the books she's been planning to read, the ones piling up on her coffee table. By the takeout containers in her fridge. By the nights she's spent in the lab.

It's sad to her, the fact that she's become such a workaholic. She's a doctor – of course, that means constant work. But each day, she's surprised at how much she wants to help their patients.

She's surprised at how much she doesn't want to be this way. She cares too much. She feels too much.

So, she starts something she can't stop. In her efforts to expand the hole she's dug for herself, here, in Princeton, she's ended up with a bigger problem on her hands.

When she screws up, she has to make everything much worse.

She has Chase to deal with now.

Uncomplicated sex, was that so hard to follow through with? Simple. And he decides to change everything around on her?

She's still smarting from that blow.

It was a blow – Chase deviating from the plan. She had figured he would be fine with the situation. He seemed fine with the situation. And then, one day, he wasn't.

She wonders whose fault that was. Was it hers? She hopes not. She had to be better than that.

Strands of her hair are sticking to her neck. It's a thousand below zero – not really; she's just hypersensitive to temperature changes – and she misses the spring weather that they had. She hates this shift, back to chilling, frigid temperatures.

She's freezing and sweating at the same time. She reaches a hand up to remove the hair from her neck. She holds out a lock, looking at it. Her hair's getting longer than usual, and wilder; the natural wave is full-on ringlets today. She twists the piece of hair. She remembers Chase commenting on it.

Abruptly, she tosses her hair back. She runs faster.

She's sprinting when she rounds the corner. She enjoys running. She chooses where she goes. She chooses the speed. She chooses every detail of her morning run, and she likes it that way.

The reins of power are firmly in her hands here, and she can pretend that she's the one who calls the shots.

Because she's not usually the one making the decisions. She's the one who listens and the one who carries out the orders.

Unfortunately, she's had her first taste of control and her hunger is insatiable. Already, she wants more.

_Mais oui._ She's so predictable.

It's too bad, really, she thinks, that Chase took her power.

Now, neither of them have it.

* * *

Cameron is carrying the expression of guilty and expectancy. She's waiting. She's girding herself for something. 

Chase knows what she's waiting for. He sees it in the flicker of her eyes at him, the rigidity of her spine as she sits beside him in the lab.

Her prefers to keep her waiting. He likes this new Cameron, the off-balance one. She's annoyed and confused at the same time. He draws some pleasure in this.

Finally, after her terse silence, he pauses. He looks at her. She ignores him now. She knows what's coming, so she gets her victory. He broke first. "It's Tuesday," he murmurs.

"So it is," she replies.

He's noticed this about this Cameron: her eyes can't lie. He glances at her. Clearly, she knows this, because she's concealed her face from him. Glasses and a microscope are astoundingly effective. He clenches his jaw. She's fighting him to win.

But he's not fighting back. She's frosty, he's not. he casually mentions the day of the week – okay, he has more than a little subtext highlighting the phrase – and she acts as if it's a personal insult. But she must maintain her composure. He sees her eyebrow twitch.

She thinks she's fighting and against him and what he wants.

"Just thought I'd mention it," Chase continues.

"That's great," Cameron says. "But I have a calendar."

"I know," he says.

"Good." She looks at him now. She gives a tight smile. "Couldn't you just e-mail me or something?"

"I'd rather tell you myself,' he says. "This way, you can't delete the message before hearing it."

"Nice to know you've got this thought out so well," she mutters.

Chase falls silent. He's not pushing it tonight; Cameron's on the verge of severe irritation. He guesses he still has several degrees of annoyance to hit before he progresses to her anger, but severe irritation on Cameron wears as fury.

He continues with the tests. She remains quiet. The only sounds are of her shoes clicking across the floor. Chase puts his back to her; because he doesn't want have to see her anymore. If he looks at Cameron, he hopes.

And she has every intention of crushing those hopes.

He ponders her hostile stance. She's been firm about where she stands with him. He's the one attempting to erase lines. She's the one attempting to draw them back.

They can't redraw lines that they've already destroyed. He knows this all too well. But she's stubborn about it. He tries to demonstrate it the only way he knows how.

She waits for him to do his bit. But he's waiting for her, too – he's waiting for her to stop running.

* * *

Cameron broke the silence by suggesting they order out for a meal. She thumbed through the stack of takeout menus, and chose pizza instead of her usual option of Chinese. 

She's a Chinese food whore, after all. But the late hours made her restless and want to break from routines.

She sits across from Chase, holding her head up with one hand. A half-eaten slice of pizza is in front of her, and she blinks at it listlessly. The whiteboard is behind her. She can't see it, but she knows it's accusing and mocking them.

Who knew that a list of symptoms could be so irritating? She feels her back stiffen, trying to black out the whiteboard.

It's late; she knows when she starts imagining a cruel whiteboard taunting her, she needs some sleep.

She reaches for the slice of pizza and takes a bite, wiping her fingers on a napkin. She steals a look at Chase. He catches her, and stares back.

They're engaged in a staring contest. She breaks it off first, disgusted with herself. He gives her a half-smile, knowing and teasing. A flicker of annoyance courses through her veins.

The silence continues, though, and she feels awkward. There are people she enjoys sitting in silence with, she doesn't need to talk with them to feel a connection. With Chase, she wants to fill the air with words. Meaningless, trite ones and petty remarks. She needs to breach the silence when she's with him.

Chase breaks through the wall of quiet for her. "Why are you avoiding me?" he asks.

"I'm not avoiding you," is her automatic response. Such a transparent lie, she thinks. She _is_ obviously avoiding him, in any way she can – be it during tests, differentials and anything else she can think of.

She's avoiding him so she can keep herself from entering conversations like this one.

Of course, all of her careful planning has backfired and now she's stuck.

He glares at her, not at all impressed by her poor ability in lying. She tries to change track. 'Why do you think I'm avoiding you?" she asks.

"Oh, I don't know," he replies. Sarcasm lies heavily in his words. "You're willing to do lab work with Foreman over me, and he doesn't even like you. You sit on the other side of a room during a differential, you take your lunch at a different time than I do, you schedule clinic time more often than you did before, and if you have to be in the same room as me for longer than a few minutes, you argue every point I make. Did I skip over anything, Doctor Cameron?"

"No, I don't think so," she fires back. "You have your answer."

"Yes," he counters. "A list of the ways you avoid me is such a helpful tool."

"I'm glad you agree," she comments, reaching for another slice of pizza. Conversation makes her ravenous. An argument requires a pint of ice cream afterward.

Surprisingly, Cameron enjoys some conflict. She thrives on ridiculous fights that have nothing to do with anything. Most people consider a love argument to be crazy, but she thinks the opposite.

However, this isn't one of those debates that sprinkled her childhood and adolescence. Chase is fixated on her face and there's something more serious at play here.

"You're not really upset that I'm avoiding you," she says.

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, because I enjoy a good dose of the silent treatment."

"Nice try," Cameron replies. "You're still upset about…" She lets her words drop, and she falters in her gaze.

She's upset, too.

"I would think you're more upset than I am," he says, "since you keep bringing our non-relationship up."

She bristles. How dare he accuse her of still being hung up over that! She's not – she's annoyed, maybe just a little – so he better not be.

But his eyes are challenging her – he does mean it. "I am not upset," she says. "It's over. I'm fine with that. You're the one who insists on reminding me every week."

"I could just say, 'It's Tuesday, I like you,' and leave it at that," he suggests. "You prolong the conversation, Cameron. Are you trying to tell me -"

"Yes, I am!" she retorts. She knows that he's egging her on, but she can't help but respond. "Nothing. A black, empty void. Get used to it."

She's being deliberately cruel, and she feels the instinct to shrink away from her meanness.

Too bad, too late. She folds her arms and glares him down. Chase doesn't waver. It's irritating that he can keep this up long than she can.

"I suppose it's lucky that I have no expectations, then," Chase says.

"It would seem that way." She deflates, she can only be so cold for so long, then she has to thaw out. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," he says.

"Do you really have no expectations?" she asks.

"I really have no expectations." He shrugs. "I don't see why this bothers you so much."

He quirks his eyebrows at her. She looks away.

Her spark of motivation has burnt out. She doesn't want to talk or argue or snipe at him anymore. She polishes off her pizza, daintily removing traces of grease from her fingers. She clears the table, tossing plates and napkins into the garbage can. She jams the pizza box into the fridge. She dusts of her hand and straightens, staring at him.

"Don't lie to me, Chase," she says. "You have expectations." Regally, she walks out of the office, the glass door swinging shut behind her. Chases stands, hearing the echo of her words.


	2. The Truth about Lies

Thank you to those who have read and reviewed. This starts out a little slow, so just bear with me!

So, enjoy. As always, feedback is appreciated.

Chapter 2: The Truth about Lies

The late afternoon sunlight glints off the reddish strands of hair in Cameron's braid. She's tossed her hair over her shoulder, and it's brushing the tabletop from the way she's leaning back, facing the whiteboard. There's nothing written on it anymore, and from the way she's staring at it, Chase knows she's not seeing it. She's far away, floating off into the distance. He wishes he knew where she was.

It's not like she's been astoundingly open with him, anyway. It's not like she would want him to know, either.

What is it with Cameron and shunning him? If he just listened to what she _said_, he would think that she cares more House (still) than him.

Which might be entirely possible, but he never strays down that path.

A cane raps on the glass door, and House enters. "You were wrong," he barks.

Cameron turns to look at House, and Chase admires her composure, because half the time, he has some homicidal rage directed at his boss. Like now. Chase narrows his eyes at House. Cameron waits for the rest of the accusation. Foreman looks bored. "The kid's not getting any better," House continues. "Did I send you to check the home yet?"

"No," Foreman replies.

"Now that's weird," House mumbles. "Chase, Cameron, go raid the house. If they have any beer, bring it back."

"What?" Chase demands.

House shrugs. "I'm out of beer." He leaves, hobbling down the hallway.

Cameron takes off her lab coat. "Field trip, yay," she comments.

* * *

An average-sized house in a nice neighbourhood. Green buds on the trees. A garden plot under the picture window and a set of stone steps to the front door complete the picture. Cameron follows Chase down the steps and waits behind him as he searches for the key. "No key," he says, after a few minutes of impassioned searching.

"You take that side," she says.

She finds a window. "Chase!" she calls, fumbling with the screen. She's not quite tall enough to get at it. She digs her fingernails in the seam, and tries to push it aside.

"Here," Chase offers, taking over. He pries the window open and stands, looking at her expectantly.

"There better not be an alarm," she warns. She grasps at the sill, pushing her body up. She drops back to the ground. She sighs. "Boost?"

Chase smirks; he's enjoying her dilemma. "What, you can't get in yourself?"

"I stopped climbing trees when I was twelve," she mutters. "Yes, I need help."

"Fine." He forms a bridge with his knee, and she steps on him, pushing up. "you could have not worn those shoes today," he tells her.

Cameron looks at her feet. Her favourite wedges – black, a few inches high, Mary Jane style. "Sorry." She grasps the sill, ignoring the pain shooting through her stomach as she leans on the ledge. She scrambles for footing on the siding.

Unceremoniously, she ends up on the floor inside the house, in a heap. "Are you alright?" Chase asks.

"I'm fine," she snaps, standing up and ignoring the pain in her arm. "Go to the front door."

He snaps in the screen, before disappearing from her sight. She struggles to get up, knocking her leg against a wooden post.

She's in the nursery of the house. Change table, crib, rocking chair, dresser. Cameron glares at the crib, rubbing her knee.

The house reminds her of her own – her parents' – surprisingly. Books and music and general stuff strewn all over the place – it's nice. It looks lived in, but no a pigsty. For a moment, she misses her rowdy family.

The moment passes. She weaves her way through the house and twists the dial on the knob. She flicks the chain off, too, and hauls it open. Chase steps in, rather hurriedly. "Did someone see you?" she asks.

"No," he replies. "I'll take the living room. You can take the kitchen."

"Okay," she says. _Way to delegate._ She opens a cupboard. They were fans of Froot Loops. She pushes aside some boxes and peers in the back. Nothing. She swings the door shut, and winces as it slams.

"What did you do now?" Chase calls.

"Nothing," she insists. She hears his footsteps behind her and whirls to face him. "You're being incredibly over-protective."

"Forgive me for caring," he mutters. "After your graceful entrance, Cameron, you're not exactly inspiring confidence."

She flushes, the blood taking over the ivory of her skin. "Thanks for reminding me."

He opens the cupboards under the sink, apparently forgetting his earlier orders. "You're welcome."

The twinge in her arm is also helping. "Nothing here," she reports, shutting the fridge.

Chase backs out from underneath the sink. "Or here. You really climbed trees as a kid?"

"Yes," she says. "Why? Do you find that hard to believe?" Her _Friendly Conversation_ radar goes off, shrieking _Warning!_ in her ear. "Didn't you?"

"No," he answers. "You just don't seem like the type," he mumbles, searching the pantry.

"You mean I don't seem like the type to climb fifty feet up in a tree," she replies. "People change."

"So I hear." He emerges again. "Sometimes, they change from what you thought you knew to something else."

She follows him down the hallway. "What are you talking about?"

He ducks in the bathroom. "Forget I said anything."

"Fine," she says. He leans down to check underneath the vanity, and pauses, leaning on the top of the sink, bowing his head. She crosses her arms, staring their reflections. He looks up, his eyes catching her mirror ones.

"What do you think our chances are of finding anything?" he asks.

"Everyone lies," she replies, breezily, planning her exit.

"Like you believe that," he scoffs. "You don't, do you? You believe that some people lie, but not everyone, about everything, like House would have us believe." He shakes his head. "Even after all of this time, you still believe in the good of people?"

"Yes," she snaps. "House hasn't got me brainwashed yet. Disappointed?"

"If I was Foreman, I would tell you that you were pathetic," he says. "In not as many words."

"And you're going to tell me…?" she prompts.

"What do you want me to say?"

She stares at him in the mirror, knowing full well that her expression is displayed too obviously in the glass. She's floored. "I…I – I don't know?" she says.

For the first time in days, she's tripped up in front of him, letting him see her uncertainty. She despises the triumphant, satisfied smirk that flashes across his face. She hears the sing-song teasing in her mind.

Her conscience is possibly the most annoying thing she knows.

Chase looks at her now, trying to lock onto her stare. "I don't think you're pathetic," he says. "I think -"

"Don't," she says. "Just don't." She spins and walks out of the bathroom. A little more loudly than she had planned – and she feels guilty.

Why must she be so damn _nice_? She stops outside the master bedroom and clenches her fists. There's no noise from the bathroom, and she slinks back. "I'm sorry," she admits. "It's…" She's helpless, searching for something not insensitive to say.

If she's so nice, why can she think of a dozen highly bitchy things to say?

He ignores her, poking around under the sink. She feels her face grow hot, as it does when she feels like an idiot. She waits.

And the feeling just keeps on growing. She sticks a hand in her blazer pocket, finding a bead there. She rolls it around in her hand. She wonders how long she can go on like this, waiting. She hates that she cares.

After Cameron is thoroughly saturated with the idiocy she's created, Chase stands up. "Nothing," he says.

"I'll take the nursery," she says.

He frowns at her. "I'll take the bedroom."

She nods, glad to be going. Her excuse is almost plausible this time –

"Do you think that a seventeen year old boy is going to be spending time changing his sister's diapers?" he calls. She jumps.

"He might," she responds. "With an age gap like that."

"Speaking from experience?" he asks.

Oh, he knows how to make her talk, doesn't he? She considers not answering, but it's not really a prying question…so she caves. "Not exactly," she says.

"Really," he says.

"My sister is only two years younger," she explains. "My brother had that problem."

She remembers he knows about her family. He asked about the photos on her mantel one night, catching her off-guard. She told him a few details. She sighs. "It doesn't matter anyway. There's nothing in here."

"Shocker," he mumbles.

The tap of her shoes across the hardwood floor echoes. It's eerie, she thinks, how silent the world is during the day. She approaches the door of the bedroom Chase is in, and watches as he tries to move an enormous oak desk. "Some help would be nice," he grunts, pushing at the side.

Cameron crosses the room and curls her fingers around the edge of the desk. She tries to move it, before bending down to peer at the desk and the wall. "It's bolted to the wall," she announces.

"Great," Chase comments.

"You were the one who tried to move it," she points out. She slides to the floor, resting her forehead on her knees. She hears a scratching on plastic – too hollow, wood maybe? – and sits up. "What are you doing?"

"Checking to see if there's anything hidden in the gap here," he says.

"You think someone would go to all this trouble to get something from behind a desk that's bolted to the wall?" she replies.

"If he's hiding something that his parents would consider contraband, sure." Chase stands up and starts examining the bookshelf.

"Looking for a fake book now?"

He runs his hands over the spines of the books, trying to get a better angle to see. "He's not that bright.'

"Have you checked the bed yet?"

"Not yet."

"Good." Cameron lies on her stomach, pushing aside some stray laundry underneath the bed. She wrinkles her nose. She never understood the appeal of having an old gym t-shirt lie on the floor for weeks. "The bookshelf is unlikely."

"Yeah?" Chase asks. "Where did you hide the stuff you didn't want your parents to see?"

"I didn't hide it," she admits. "My mother never felt the need to search my room."

"I forgot," he says dryly. "The Saint Cameron would never lie to her parents."

"I just never gave them any reason to think I was lying," she says, simply. She stands up and lifts the mattress.

"Bit sneaky, weren't you?" Chase turns around, leaning on the bookshelf. He follows her movements.

"Maybe," she concedes. "It's best to tell a lie with as much truth as you can."

"Yet you can never lie to patients," he points out.

"Lying about where you're going is different that lying about a person's health," she says.

He smiles thinly. "Yes."

Cameron turns to look at him, one hand still supporting the mattress. She narrows her eyes, trying to get a read on him. He stares back, challenging her. He knows she can't quite get what he's thinking. He knows it frustrates her.

She frustrates him, too. He's fascinated by her, too – but she frustrates him. How does she block him out? he can she be so cold to him – and only him?

"Clear," she says, dropping the mattress with a thud. She pulls off her glove. "Guess he wasn't lying after all."

"Disappointing," her replies.

She nodes, curt, before pushing past him. He watches her leave. An look of blankness has fallen on her face.

He wonders what she lies about. He hopes he's right about one of those lies.


	3. The Rules

Thanks so much, everyone, for all the reviews and words of encouragement. It really means a lot.

Unfortunately, my updating schedule is going to hit a snag next week…because I will have no life, starting Thursday night. The last rehearsals for a play and all…so after that, I'll be back up and writing. I just want to give you guys a little warning, so you don't start wondering where I'm hiding.

Enjoy. Feedback is great, because I do love knowing what you think.

(Edit 3/8/07: Thanks to med student for catching my flub. Silly typos/ inability to actually remeber research. I apologize.)

Chapter 3: The Rules

Chase manufactures a smile for the patient sitting in the exam room. He's stuck in the clinic this morning, the handiwork of House, he's sure – he had found out this piece of news when he came in. Cameron told him, sipping her coffee. He isn't sure if she was perversely happy or not.

It could be her handiwork. He allows the possibility for a second, then drops it. It's not her style.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asks, flicking his eyes up from the file. _Jordan MacLeod._ "Jordan," he tacks on.

A college kid sits in front of him, wearing a t-shirt with some smart-ass comment on it. Chase resists the urge to roll his eyes. _How original_. "Uh…I woke up this morning and my eye was all red."

"Alright," he replies. He reaches for his pocket. Wheeling the chair over, he squints at the kid's eye. "I think -"

A tentative tap sounds at the door, and Cameron steps in. She casts a smile at the kid before addressing Chase. "We need you," she says.

"Sure," he says. "You have pinkeye," he tells the patient. "Take this -" he scrawls on his prescription pad – "and go to the pharmacy. Use the drops twice a day."

"Thanks." Jordan nods at Cameron, who's standing outside the door. "What's her deal?"

"Sick people," Chase replies, tightly, wondering why he's bothering.

"Right," the kid mumbles.

"What's going on?" he asks Cameron. They start for the elevator, her strides matching his own.

"House showed up ten minutes ago, asked where you were and told me to come get you," she responds.

"You could have paged me."

"Apparently it's more personal this way," she says. She jabs the elevator button.

"Right," Chase agrees. "It's not something related to the case, then."

"Probably not," she says. "Out of the goodness of his heart, House rescued you from the clinic."

He stares at her. She shrugs. "I have no idea." She runs a hand through her hair and leans on the wall, waiting. "Luke went into defib while you were down here. Maybe he does have something."

"Since seventeen year old athletes aren't supposed to go into v-fib, I'd hope so," he says. "Another eleventh hour miracle, Cameron?"

"I don't think it's time for that yet," she replies. "But something would be nice."

The elevator doors slide open. She pries her body from the wall. He steps back, letting her enter first. She sighs. "Thank you."

He takes a place next to her, staring straight ahead. She has a trace of irritancy in her voice, and it's his turn to sigh. A simple conversation about work, a display of etiquette, and she's irked.

She's stubborn, but so is he.

* * *

Waiting. 

Cameron's noticed that all of the cases have a pattern. They've hit the time for waiting. Watching. Praying that nothing will happen, but hoping something will – a last ditch effort for a miracle.

She laces her fingers. She crosses and uncrosses her legs. She's restless, itching to _leave_, but never following through. Her foot taps out rhythms along the floor tiles. Chase looks at her, his crossword forgotten in the intensity of his stare.

She wishes he would stop looking at her like this. It makes her uneasy. She scratches her collarbone, her eyes breaking from his and falling to the floor. She starts to count floor tiles. She can remember doing this as a child, swinging her legs and waiting for her parents.

Her feet reach the floor now.

And she's watching dying.

Their patient, Luke, lies in the bed. His parents are sleeping in the waiting room. she feels the prickle of tears in her eyes.

It's never the same for her. Cameron still aches when she has to look at the family of a patient that they can't save. Happiness doesn't come easy for her, but excruciating sadness does, and she stares at her lap. She runs her fingernail across the weave of her pants. A tear threatens to drip and she takes a deep breath. "I'll be right back," she announces to Chase and the unconscious Luke. Her voice trembles. She's ashamed now, because of the way her words came out. High and shaky.

Cameron invites trouble for herself. She stiffens her posture and walks out of the room, trying to hold her head high.

The roof is her refuge. She mounts the last steps, then hauls open the door to a light drizzle. She clutches her coat around her waist. The heavy door slams shut, and she gravitates to ward the wall.

The green hops out at her from the land below. Fresh, hesitant green. It's creeping in on the dead plants and pushing them out.

The green of new life.

A new wave of sadness falls down on her and she leans her head on an arm. Her hair spills over the side of the wall, droplets of water mixing in with the strands. She shuts her eyes. The drizzle coats her face with cold water.

Cameron decides that she's desperately sad. They need a solution – a diagnosis – and she's sluggish. She's no long being objective. Already, she hears House chastising her. Objectivity is the most important thing.

Or so it's been drilled into her brain.

She decides to switch gears. She's going to give herself roughly a minute to compose herself, before returning to the real world. She straightens, resting her hands on the wall.

An Australian accent cuts through her silence and the mist. "Are you alright?"

She turns, hair whipping her face. Chase takes this as a signal to keep going forward. 'I'm fine," she says.

Such a trite phrase – but she has a tendency to use those around chase. It simplifies everything. Quick, short answers. Cameron crosses her arms. "I needed some air," she half-explains.

He crosses the roof, and leans on the wall beside her. He stares at the opposite skyline. "I never realized you were claustrophobic.

"Yeah, well." she shrugs.

"Interesting," he replies.

She is silent. He doesn't believe her, obviously – she wouldn't either. What is it about Chase that compels her to lie so badly? She doesn't owe him any kind of answer, yet she feels she does, so she makes one up.

He glances down at the ground, before turning the same way she is. He drags his lab coat sleeves through the gritty water that's collected on the ledge. She cringes at the dirt marks on the otherwise pristine cuffs; she can't help it. He tilts his head at her movement. "What?"

"You're getting all wet," she says. He is, but he isn't as drenched as she is; he looks like some picture of someone "caught" in the rain that would be found in a magazine.

"So are you," he murmurs. "Come back in?"

Her hands are thoroughly saturated with water and icy. She shakes her head, her bangs sticking to her forehead. "I'll be back in a little while."

"Right." Chase squints at her. "I'll see you soon." He pulls himself from the wall and heads for the door, the rain distorting his silhouette.

She's already back in her own little bubble, when she remembers she hasn't heard the door swing shut. She spins to see Chase, holding the door open. He's completely casual, just leaning there. 'Cameron," he says, "don't lie to me, either."

She blinks at him. He's serious, his expression reads as such. Finally, she says, "I won't."

He nods. He steps aside for her to go through, but she shakes her head. She has to stand her ground somewhere.

* * *

He's been in the patient's room for another half hour before Cameron makes an appearance. Foreman's long gone – having jumped at Chase's offer to take over again. 

Four o'clock in the morning. He's so tired that he's awake again.

Slowly, he blinks at her. Her hair is plastered to her head, and she has the air of someone who's just gone for a swim. The rain has progressed to an actual downpour now. He gives a brief smile, before she collapses into the other chair. "No change?"

"No change," he confirms.

"Any word from House?"

"Nothing."

There's an intake of breath, and then quiet.

The pen in his hand slips, and blindly, he stares at the crossword. It's not like any of the clues have made any sense to him since yesterday afternoon, but it's not being able to _read_ them that is disconcerting. He stares at the newsprint.

He thinks he had a flash of how much the cases must affect Cameron sometimes.

Sometimes, he's disappointed in how little he feels for the patients. They could be dying and all he can come up with is a distant glimmer of sympathy.

Subtly, her resists feeling for the patients. If he cared too much, it would be too much.

It's easier to feel nothing at all, to ignore everything.

God, he applies that to too many areas of his life.

_Ten across, ciliate protozoan, seven letters._

He tries to drag his eyes back to his crossword. Cameron just waits, like always. Foreman's absence is a reminder that he never does. Chase multitasks.

_Fourteen down, painter, "Guernica," seven letters._

He shuts the crossword book and looks over at Cameron. She meets his eyes and frowns. "What?" she prods.

"Do you think we'll be able to catch some sleep?" he asks.

"No," she says. "Not until he's cured."

Chase isn't asking because he wants an answer; he's asking to see _if_ she'll answer. "Figures," he mumbles.

He did catch her words, though. _Not until he's cured._ So optimistic, and he can't share the sentiment.

Giving up too easily. He has heard that attributed to him before, hasn't he?

He clenches his jaw. "We've got about four hours before Foreman will show up. At least six before House shows up."

She nods. He stifles a groan. "Talk to me, Cameron. I'd rather not be woken up by House." He shifts in his chair. "We can't spend four hours sitting here not talking."

Cameron rolls here eyes, exasperated. "House isn't upstairs?"

"He left a few hours ago."

"Great." She stares at the ceiling, her nose pointing skyward.

"What's your favourite colour?" he blurts.

She laughs, perhaps a tad mocking. "What's my favourite colour?"

"Hey, you weren't keeping up your end of the conversation," he says, defensively.

A simple statement, a basic fact, and he doesn't know what the answer will be to this one.

That was backwards.

"Green," she replies.

"Why?"

"Why," she repeats.

"Is it more helpful if you say whatever I say?" he asks. She walked into that, he thinks.

"Because it reminds me of -" she breaks off. "It just is."

"Fine." he leans back in the chair. "Your turn."

She looks wary, narrowing her eyes as she tries to figure out what he's up to. "What is this? Some kind of game?"

He shrugs.

"Okay." To Cameron's credit, she does what he isn't looking for: she smiles. A strange smile. "What's _your_ favourite colour?"

"_What_?" he spits out.

"If it's a game," she says, "then we have to play until the end. Starting out easy is the best way to play."

He stares at her. She's still wearing that strange smile – more of a smirk, he realizes – and her eyes have changed. She looks eager. He is never going to understand her. Just when she falls into a pattern, she stops it.

"Well?" she asks.

"Red," he replies.


	4. Locking the Door

As always, guys, thanks for the reviews. Feedback equals love, and I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 4: Locking the Door

As predicted, House berated them for not having anything. "How is it possible to sit by the kid's bed all night and not have anything?" he demands.

"He was asleep," Chase says.

House glares at them, before giving a mysterious smile. "That's something."

"Or it might be because it was the middle of the night," Cameron comments. Her hair has dried to a puffy, curly shape, and the circles under her eyes are telling.

"That cheer is so wonderful," House replies. "You are a morning person, aren't you?"

It's her turn to glare.

Chase looks from House to Cameron, seeing the icy beam. He groans, inwardly.

He starts to count the hours before he can go – but stops at six. Discouraging morning.

He downs some coffee.

* * *

Chase finds her in the cafeteria, picking at something that resembles a salad. Or pasta; he isn't sure. "Hey," he greets her, sliding into the booth. 

"Hi," she replies. "House snap at you too?"

"I wouldn't call it that," he says.

Cameron smiles tightly. (Is she guarded today? He can't tell.) "Okay, being house." She twirls her fork, dishing up some food. She drops the fork, letting it clatter on the table. "What are you doing here? I thought you were monitoring Luke's reaction to the new meds."

"I bailed on more waiting," he replies. "Foreman can do it."

"Sure," she agrees.

She falls silent after that, stirring around her food. Her eyes flit all over the place, bouncing from the table to him. He tries to catch her gaze, but she moves on, already occupied with something else.

The fidgeting of her hands, the darting of her eyes – it comes to him in pieces. Immediately, upon realization, he feels stupid. He's sluggish today, because he _just_ figured she's nervous. Or uncomfortable.

He digests this. A change. Another one.

She's good at surface changes.

Cameron picks at the corner of a fingernail. Her bangs fall in front of her face. She speaks so quietly, forcing him to lean forward. "It's your turn to ask a question." She pulls away, then, standing, making the awkward half-walk, half-slide from the booth.

"Where are you going?" Chase asks.

She checks her watch. "Clinic."

"I'll see you later," he says.

"Yeah," she mumbles, already walking away. Her lab coat swings as she leaves, and she disappears.

Chase leans back, tilting his head at the door. It's still swinging a little.

He's sure her abandoned napkin laughs at him. Him and his stupid hopes.

* * *

Cameron grabs another file and opens it. The winning symptom is a running nose. Riveting, really. 

If there was a contest to determine who hated the clinic the most, House would come out on top. But she would be fairly close up there.

Not that she has ever admitted that.

But it's one of those days again.

She sighs, reading the name silently. She turns around – and finds a pair a pair of blue eyes staring at her.

They belong to a woman with dark curly hair, who is frowning at her.

Cuddy truly does intimidate her. She swallows slightly, prepared to say anything – but Cuddy beats her to it. "Do you know where House is?" she asks.

Cameron's first reaction is _what now_? but she bites it back and thinks about it. She's been in the clinic for a few hours now, and she hasn't seen House since before lunch. "I don't know," she says, apologetically. Because the look Cuddy's giving her is accusing, and Cameron has the old schoolgirl feeling of being in trouble when she's really not.

Cuddy nods, her reassuring smile strained. Cameron tries to return the sentiment, but it doesn't come out as well as she would have hoped.

"Chase," Cuddy says. Cameron looks over her shoulder. He props his arm up on the desk.

"Have you seen House?" Cuddy asks.

Chase inclines his head in direction of the lobby. "He should be in his office."

"Thank you," the dean of medicine says, marching away.

"What's going on?" Cameron asks, shutting the file.

He shrugs one shoulder. "Nothing good, I'm sure."

She nods, heading for the exam room. "Why are you down here?"

"House and Foreman are verbally bitch slapping one another over what's wrong with the patient," he explains.

"Sounds pleasant."

"Believe me, it is," he replies. "Unfortunately, I have duty here in five minutes."

"Really?" she asks.

"Really," he says.

Cameron blinks at him a moment. "We're both down here when we have a dying patient up there?"

"If House wants us, he'll come get us," Chase says.

"Right," she responds, unconvinced. She opens the door to the first exam room. "Andrea Martin?"

The middle-ages woman nods. Chase leans in the doorway. She raises an eyebrow, before sitting on the wheeled stool. "You've had some back pain?" Cameron asks.

"Yes," the woman replies. She casts a look at Chase, who smiles.

"I'm just speaking with Doctor Cameron about another patient," he tells her.

Cameron looks at the file. A familiar prickle of irritation is poking at her heart – but she banishes it.

It's stupid, her perpetual state of annoyance. She takes a deep breath, and looks over at Chase. He has a hand in the pocket of his lab coat. His eyes meet hers, and she can feel a blush coming on.

Why does he have to remind her that he's so damn gorgeous now?

She wishes that she was immune to his charm. She almost is, she thinks. "What sort of pain?" she asks.

The woman coughs. "An ache, I guess. It's more noticeable when I sit down."

"Okay." Cameron shuts the file. 'Do you stand for long periods of time?"

"Well, yes…" Her voice trails off. "But it's never been this bad before."

"Have you done anything else that would cause back pain recently?"

"No," the woman says. Cameron gives her a quizzical look. "There may have been a party…my sister threw it – and we got a little tipsy." She swallows nervously. "There was a game of limbo…three hours long."

"Did you play?" Cameron asks.

The woman blushes, stealing a look at Chase. "I won."

"I see," Cameron murmurs. "Um…" She coughs. "How long ago was this party?"

"Two days." The woman's face blushes even more; Cameron holds back an unexpected laugh. Mean, she knows, but it's kind of funny.

"Well, that might be your problem," she replies. "As long as you don't' do any more…strenuous back exercises, it should be fine. Come back if the pain gets any worse."

Chase accompanies her back to the reception area. She hands the file over to the nurse on duty. "Limbo?" he queries. "Admit it, you thought it was funny."

"Don't you have your own patients?"

He snatches a file. "House still thinks it's something viral."

"Of course he does," Cameron says.

"What do you think?" he presses.

"I think House is insane," she replies. "But he's usually right."

"I know."

"Good." She thumbs through the chart in her hand and starts to walk away, again – but a hand catches her wrist. She turns, as much as she can, and glares at him. "Nice." She puts her free hand on her hip and waits, leaning her weight on one leg.

Chase's gaze bores into her. "It's my turn to ask a question, right?"

"Right," she says, slowly.

"Why are you down here treating back pain due to limbo contests when you're obviously worried about out dying patient upstairs?"

She opens her mouth, but she's blank.

* * *

Chase is packing up for the night, hanging up his lab coat, rinsing out his coffee cup, turning off the light. Cameron appears, cradling her lab coat in her arms. The moonlight beaming from the window plays with the shadows. "Are you staying here?" he asks. 

"Yes." She sighs. "No."

"You better not be," he says darkly.

"I'm not," she replies.

"Good." He leaves his empty mug by the coffeepot.

"I was in the clinic," she begins, "because…" Cameron clears her throat. "Because I wanted to get away…from _this_." She waves a hand around. "Because sometimes, it's too much, and sometimes the clinic offers refuge."

"So that's why you booked extra hours," he says.

"I didn't book extra hours," she replies. "I just went down."

"Oh," he says.

"Gellar hadn't shown up yet, so I took over."

"Oh," he repeats.

Cameron takes a seat at the table, putting her feet up on another chair. He isn't sure if she's inviting a conversation, or just resting. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms, plans to leave forgotten.

She reaches a hand up into her hair and loosens the elastic. "Why don't you talk about your family?" she asks.

"What?" Chase blurts.

"I mean, I know about your dad," she back-tracks. "But isn't there anything good that you'd like to remember about them?"

"I don't know," he replies.

"You don't have to – I mean, if you don't want to…I shouldn't have…" Her old sweetness appears to have remerged, for one fleeting minute. She's not being abrasive.

"That's not part of the game, is it?"

She gives a shrug. "I guess not."

"I didn't think so." He stares at the patches of light, for the first time trying to figure out why they were in the dark. "There are some things – but it's easier if there's nothing said. No explanations, no…" He looks down at her. "There's nothing to talk about, for the most part."

Cameron nods.

"I thought you said we would start out with the easy questions." He lets out a mirthless laugh.

"Sorry."

"It's fine."

Chase wonders why she asked about his family. Hell, he wonders why she's even participating in the immature game he's started.

He takes a few steps toward the table, and by extension, Cameron. "Why are you still here?"

"Because we're in the middle of a conversation," she says, bored.

"I mean, why didn't you leave a few hours ago, instead of staying here to work?" he clarifies.

Cameron chews her lip and plays with the clasp of her watch. She has a myriad of nervous habits. He's still, only his eyes moving with the twitch of a blink. She takes in a long breath. "I always feel like if I leave, something will happen. Something that could be prevented. Being here is productive, like it helps someone, somehow."

"That's' a little self-absorbed," Chase murmurs.

She recoils slightly, blinking rapidly and avoiding his look. "Yes," she says, her tone flat. "It is."

"I'm sorry," he replies, trying to erase that hurt etched in her face. They are already so strained that he wants to do anything to fix it. He's been trying, but he thinks he's just reversed some of the progress.

"I just think…" she shakes her head. "That it's easier to problem-solve here."

"I know what you mean."

She brings her wide-eyed gaze up to him and gives a small smile. Some of her hurt is mixing with a heavy sadness now present. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he says.

"I don't want to leave here," she confesses. "Not yet."

He sits beside her in the dark silence of the office. For once, she seems glad for the company.

* * *

_Limbo thing? True story._


	5. Thespians

Work plus midterm plus project equals fic-writing…yes, I'm a procrastinator. But, here you go anyway. Enjoy. And feedback will make me very happy.

Chapter 5: Thespians

Cameron plunks herself into the chair by the window, shrugging off her blazer. Chase is across from her, reading the menu. "Where's Foreman?" she asks.

"He should be coming soon," he says.

"Alright," she replies.

They sit in silence. Their quiet is usually like this: them just sitting there, waiting, but Cameron's been noticing a shift in the silence. It's not as draining as it has been. It's inching toward tolerable, as opposed to hostile.

Her side has been hostile, anyway.

Chase makes a face at the menu. "What?" she asks.

"A peach and lemon-raspberry muffin," he mumbles.

"'Each peach, pear, plum,'" she replies. "It doesn't sound that bad."

"It doesn't sound that good," he retorts.

"Picky," she taunts.

"Anyone ever tell you that you have the mentality of an eight year old?" Chase asks.

"Yes," she says. "You."

"Very funny." he closes the menu. "'Each peach, pear, plum?'"

Cameron looks through the window. "It's a book."

"Right." He nods at Foreman. "Where have you been?"

"Controlling the madness." He sits in the last seat. Cameron doesn't bother asking what that even means. She has a good idea, however.

She's curious about why they bother going out like this, after cases. A bar, a restaurant, a café – they go, they spend extra hours in each other's company – but she doesn't know _why_. She can't remember how it started, or when.

Since Foreman basically hates her and Chase, and she's cold to Chase, it makes no sense. Cameron blinks and shudders, having felt some cool air on her neck. She picks up the menu, starts flipping pages. Too fast.

"Another case solved," Foreman announces. "Another week of abuse over."

"Cheers," Chase adds.

Cameron shuts the menu. "Here's to miracles."

The words leave an uncomfortable taste in her mouth. She sounds sad and bitter.

Chase meets her eyes over the table. He frowns in concern, and she presses her lips together.

She told him, the night before, in the lab, that she didn't believe in miracles.

* * *

It's developed into more than a game. 

It's a habit, an addiction, a way to pass the time.

A few days of questioning and already, she knows the things a friend would know about Chase. She feels like a fraud.

Cameron peels the foil off of a chocolate and nibbles at a corner. There's a limit, right? A limit to how much you're willing to reveal? She doesn't know where her limit lies. She's never had to test it before.

_What do you believe in?_

_What kind of music do you listen to?_

_Do you ever feel like we have no time?_

_Why? Just – why?_

Deep questions, simple queries, they covered all areas. "_Why not_?" she'd answered his last question. He'd laughed at her, butt then told her that she wasn't fulfilling the requirements for an answer.

She placed the half-eaten chocolate back on the tinfoil in front of her. She rolls the edges of the wrapper and kicks back a mouthful of water before turning around. "What are you doing here so early?"

"No good morning?" Chase asks, pulling on his lab coat. "Alright."

"Good morning," Cameron replies, peevish. She shoots a _look_ at him. "Why are you here so early?"

"How come you're eating chocolate for breakfast?" he returns.

She tosses one in his direction. Chase snaps it neatly from the air, and juggles it from hand to hand. He pulls out a chair. Cameron's friendlier this morning, almost carefree. Or as close as she ever gets.

God, she's dull. Cameron turns to face Chase head-on and props her chin on her arm. It _is_ early – too early. Each twitch of her eyelid brings the feeling of sand in her eyes. "I decided to skip the pretence of Nutella and eat the real thing," she replies.

"That's extremely healthy," he mutters. "Thank God you're a doctor."

"Ha." She gets up. "Coffee?"

"Sure."

She knows she makes crappy coffee, so she finds it surprising when he doesn't get up to help her, or take over, politely.

Here she is, dissecting everything far too much.

Filling the pot, she looks over her shoulder at him. "So," she begins, "why _are_ you here so early, Chase?"

Her voice wavers on his name, pausing, making a slight hiss on the last syllable. She stares at the carpet. That came out all wrong, she thinks. Too personal for such a casual question.

"Cameron," he says, "does it matter?"

_No, it doesn't_, she wants to say. But she's not sure what he's really asking anymore, because there's always more than one question with them and she's tired of digging for the real one.

* * *

Early morning, late night. They interrogate each other during the extremes. Chase sits at the table, feet up, tie loosened, shock of hair falling in his face. 

Cameron almost smiles (inwardly, of course) at him. He's so adorable, resting there. He makes her sad, too. Her fingers tingle and she has to sit on them just to make it go away.

A shake of his head and the hair is gone.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

She takes this as a sign that the flags have been waved. "In general?" she replies.

"Whatever you want."

"I'm tired," she says. "I had to eat the fish sticks for lunch. My sister left me an angry message on my phone." Chase's eyes shoot up and he frowns at her. Concern? Alarm? Interest? She doesn't know. "I have a ton of dishes waiting for me at home."

"Buy a dishwasher," Chase suggests.

"Washing dishes builds character," she sing-songs.

"Well, that's a load of shit," he says.

"I know."

"Then get a dishwasher, and stop complaining."

"You asked," she points out.

Times like these – these moments that have been cropping up lately – where they're having _fun_ just sniping at one another, flinging back jabs at one another, almost make her forget. They almost make her forget why she agreed to this strange game, this play at manipulating one another, this odd kind of bet.

But she always remembers.

Because, inevitably, Cameron will make the mistake of meeting Chase's eyes again. She'll make the mistake of holding onto that look too long so she can see what's there. And she'll always end up wishing she didn't look up.

Always, always, there's that expression of patient longing in Chase's face. Sometimes it's pleading, sometimes it's hungrier than that. It sneaks up in the way he talks to her once every so often.

She despises it, because it destroys the illusion of casual friendship she has been hoping for. She despises it because she just can't return it.

* * *

"What was your first job?" she asks. 

"Lifeguard," Chase fires out, looking embarrassed.

She giggles a little. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was," he says. "I used to teach swimming lessons, too."

"How sweet," she says.

"You're hilarious," he snaps. "What was your first job, then?"

"I shelved books at the library," Cameron says.

"That's not fair," he complains. 'There's no making fun of that."

"Sure there is," she argues. "I was a nerd." She smirks. "Of course, that doesn't quite equal the surfer boy image…"

"Great," Chase mutters. The scowl on his face makes her giggle even harder.

This is exactly the kind of conversation she likes.

* * *

It feels like hours have gone by, hours that they've spent sitting together in the office. 

It is a little strange.

Cameron crosses her legs, Indian-style and rests her elbows on her knees.

The idea of them, talking, sharing stories – it's weird. Funnily enough, she'd never considered them to be "friends," in any capacity. They just weren't.

She picks up a discarded stir stick from the counter and rolls it between her fingers. "Where did you think you'd be today?"

"When I was five, I thought I'd be a zookeeper," Chase replies. He holds the serious face for a moment before cracking. "I was never looking too far ahead."

"Oh," she says.

"I didn't think I'd be here tonight," he adds.

For crying out loud, honestly – how is she supposed to know what he means by that? She bites her lip. So, she gives a solemn nod, hoping that it's the right thing to do. She recognizes this as one of the painful, awkward pauses that they have.

"Are you cold?" Chase asks.

Looking down, she realizes that she's hugging herself. Holding in the pieces. "No," she says. "I'm fine."

The constant refrain. A cloud shoots across Chase's brow. "Good."

Silence. Almost. A few cars zip through the parking lot outside, betraying the relief of the owners. The fridge hums and the long, oft-forgotten coffeepot feebly tries to come back to life. But the other, familiar sounds of the hospital are lost on the way up the stair, because they do not reach the office.

Cameron feels alone without them. She wonders if everything has shut down, or if they've been detached from the hospital, House's office now a separate entity. This is the way her mind works at night – veering into the wacky or ridiculous and sometimes wildly irrational.

At least they aren't sitting in the dark tonight.

Chase opens his mouth like he's going to speak and her ears prick up, hoping that he can end the weight of quiet on her.

Pass the responsibility to someone else, to get out of an uncomfortable situation, that's her all over.

He shuts his mouth and she slumps.

Hopeful and stupid, she scolds herself.

The sound of breathing and the fridge and the cars create a symphony that she would like to end and she starts to –

Chase clears his throat. Pauses. 'What were birthdays like when you were a kid?"

She stares at him. Such an innocent question, she realizes.

And then there is the overwhelming relief.

* * *

Eventually, it is decided that they'll be leaving – soon. Cameron asks for the definition of soon, by Chase's standards. He gives a slight, lopsided smile, saying now. 

She fumbles with her bag, digging for car keys. Cameron never can find them; it's a search that repeats itself every day. She starts pulling things out: her wallets, a book, a hairbrush.

Victoriously, she snags the ring of her keys, making a fist around the bundle.

But it's the small ring box that tumbles out of the bag that makes her stop. It snaps open.

A chain with a ring on it. Gold. It lies on the table, sparkling in the light. Chase freezes hand on the handle of the door, spinning at the clatter.

Cameron puts down her keys and reaches for the box. The ring feels heavy in her hand.

She's always carried around the ring – it just seemed wrong to hide it away. It felt wrong to wear it. So, she keeps it near her.

She slips it in the bag, head bowed. Chase doesn't ask her about it – although he seems to sense something – he crosses the room and stands a foot away. she can feel the heat radiating from him.

The question, too.

_What? Why? Do you want to tell?_

"My wedding ring," she says. It's odd that she's discussed this with House and Wilson and Foreman, but never Chase.

He nods encouragingly.

"I think -" her voice breaks and she swallows, looking away. "I think I thought it wasn't going to happen. That the impossible could be fixed. That he was going to live and we were going to be fine. Like he had a chance against the cancer."

Here it is: her vulnerability lying out for both of them to see. Cameron looks away. "Good night," Chase finally says, and she's glad, because she couldn't have let him comfort her.


	6. Melted Wax

It has been a little while, I'm afraid…I hope everyone had an excellent holiday (whatever you celebrate). And here is a New Year's present. Right. I hope everyone has a great 2008. )

Anyway…my usual spiel: enjoy. Feedback is encouraged.

Chapter 6: Melted Wax

It seeps into her brain, filling the cracks she's created, shoving years of useless knowledge in there. She taps her foot along the fake-wood floor and makes the couch squeak.

Boredom. Loneliness.

She really is an eight year old, she thinks, in her own twisted way.

Cameron jumps from her nest in the corner of the couch and walks the floor. Somewhere along the way, she's turned into a pacer – she can practically see the spot where she's worn a path. The dip in the floor, the patch on the rug.

She adds the chewing of a nail to her pacing, before collapsing on the couch, a mess of long hair and legs and arms.

Staring at the ceiling, Cameron runs down her list of Things to Do.

It's not the best course of action, at all – and she's an idiot – but she picks up the phone anyway, and punches in the number with a practiced speed that she shouldn't have.

* * *

He meets her at the café they always go to – the site of their recent dinner. It takes on a new look: kind and comforting and homey, and not formal and stilted. It's partially filled, and Chase sees Cameron sitting at the counter. 

"Hi," he says, sliding in beside her.

"Oh," she says, a look of surprise on her face. 'Hi." She's got a mug clutched in between her hands. Chase inhales: she's got tea. He thinks that he might prefer the rooty scent of tea over the sharpness of the coffee she usually drinks. "You showed up."

The surprise is still heavy in her voice. He wonders if it's for him or her. "You called me," he says, matter of factly. 'Why wouldn't I come?"

Cameron shrugs before taking another sip of tea. Maybe it's the by product of too many disappointments, he thinks. Even the small slights. He recognizes this in himself, and then there's that thread of kinship that makes Chase a little more open. He settles onto the stool more permanently, resting his hands squarely on the counter. She glances at him, the hint of a smile in the shadows of her lips.

But she says nothing, and so he's left hanging, pulling at the strings of dead conversation. He clenches his teeth. _God, Cameron._

Finally, staring at the counter, he says, "How are you?"

"I don't know," she says.

Chase's eyes flick up and over at her. Her head is bowed, the tea is sitting alone. He gets the sense that she didn't _mean_ to say that, but now she's in the water and might as well keep going. "I don't know," she repeats helplessly. She looks up again.

There's hope there – peeking out from the corner – but if it's his or hers, he doesn't know.

* * *

It's a companionable chat they have: friendly, light and not their usual, fraught with intensity and coolness (hers) and calm (him) and the bluntness of truth and the safety of lies. (She knows they have to be there.) This is a deviation of the game, but Cameron feels oddly separated from that the moment; she feels free to say what she wants, to reinvent herself if she likes. 

Change. It's what she chases after. She gets tired of it all, and tries to run but can't be bothered and so she plods on the same trek.

She sticks to things she knows, and freezing up around Chase is one of them. But she's not being cool and this conversation is not something she knows as well, and maybe she can try to change.

It would be nice. To just – stop.

Cameron reaches for a long-forgotten French fry sitting on her plate. She tosses it in her mouth, savouring the still salty taste. "What?" she asks, looking at Chase sideways.

He smiles. Rare and true. "Nothing," he protests.

"No, what?" she demands.

"It's nothing," Chase insists.

"Really?" she says.

"Really."

She takes another fry and chews on it thoughtfully. "I have to know," she says, swallowing. "What?"

"Curiosity killed the cat," Chase says.

"And satisfaction brought it back," Cameron adds. She ponders the statement. "I _hate_ cats."

"Then your curiosity is good," he replies.

She lets a giggle loose. "Some on," she says.

"Fine." Chase drops his fork, and turns to face her, no longer teasing. "You're happy tonight."

"Am I?" she asks.

Chase gives her a pointed look, and she has a glimmer of what he might be like as a father: kind and serious, but with his moments of levity. The vision is there, and then it is gone, but it leaves her with some anxious discomfort.

"You weren't happy when I got here," he says. "But you are now."

"I was fine earlier."

"Of course you were." Chase holds his hands up, backing off, giving up and giving into that one mildly defensive statement. "You're just happier now."

Cameron snatches another fry. He's not sure if that's a signal for something. He shuts up. She licks the salt from her fingers and wipes the tips on a napkin. "Interesting," she murmurs.

Chase waits some more.

"I think I am happy." She folds her hands and smiles at him. Yes, she's sitting in a café at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night, eating cold French fries with Chase, but she's happy.

Another part of her is sad that she couldn't even recognize it herself. Where, exactly, did everything go wrong? She saves this musing, storing it away to ponder even though she already knows the answer.

"Are you happy?" she blurts.

He cocks his head at her; the questioning, longing glint is in his eyes. He knows this is a kind of attempt to get them back on the rails. "Yeah, sure," he says, slowly. "I am."

She turns. The happiness is still there, but it's mingling with an ache, that it's surprising to both of them.

* * *

Cameron's not sure what kind of look Chase gives her when he finds out that she walked to the café. Her apartment is deplorably close to the café – also to the hospital. Her whole life is there right now. Even him. It's telling that she called him: anyone that she ever would bother talking to is in that building. 

The café is about to close, at midnight. She finds the hours of the place a slight bit strange, but who is she to judge?

"I can walk," she protests feebly, but she's already lost. Chase is chivalrous, she knows this too well.

It's sweet, she thinks – while she makes a pronounced roll of her eyes. Chase'll be damned if he can't make sure that she gets home.

It is sweet. It irks her. It makes her happy.

Cameron wonders if she has multiple personalities. It's a possibility, she's sure. "Fine," she sighs, buttoning up her sweater. "If it'll make you feel better."

"You're huffy," Chase observes, holding the door open for her.

"Yes, I am." She stuffs her hands in her pockets. "I'm a big girl, Chase."

"Just let me be nice to you, alright?" he says.

It is subtle, barely there – she gives him credit for that – a spark of irritancy lying under the statement. She doesn't make anything easy, does she? For him, especially.

If only there were a return policy on whatever it is that she has. She doesn't deserve it.

Self-deprecation is an art form that she's long mastered.

"I think I can do that," she replies.

"About time," he mutters.

She decides to ignore that. "Look over there," Cameron says, instead. She slows her walk to a standstill and points to the university fountain. The moon is reflected off of the still pool of water. It's turned off for some reason.

"My stepsister," Chase says quietly, "wanted to be a photographer." He nods at the fountain. "She would love this."

Cameron holds her breath, staring at the fountain. There's the rush of air through some nearby trees, the odd car on the streets, the distant sound of people who are not them – but nothing to commemorate this moment. She doesn't know what to do or say or think. She takes a look at Chase, his profile shining in the dimness of the evening.

Like all things, it passes and Cameron is almost sorry she said nothing. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it was too perfect, too huge for her to say anything. The trust overwhelms her, but it rests comfortably, too.

The continue walking. Cameron digs her fists into the pockets of her sweater a little deeper, and shudders. _Someone just walked over your grave, dear_, the oft-forgotten voice of her grandmother warns.

"Are you okay?" she asks after Chase's quiet has gone on for a few minutes.

"Yes," he says. "Why?"

"Just wondering."

"Alright."

Another pause in the flow, and she frowns. Talk, talk, talk. But she can't say anything at all, not really. Isn't that how it usually is?

"Your apartment is on the next street, right?" he asks.

"Yes," she says. "Fourth door." Four doors and eight blocks from the hospital, she always thinks.

Chase gives a nod as they pass under another streetlight. He's briefly illuminated, light casting shadows all over the planes of his face.

Often, she wonders what life would be like if she had gone after that (impractical) idea of art school. More importantly, she thinks about what she'd be doing with her training. She did go through her artist stage – paint, charcoal, pastels, clay…her fingers long for a pencil, to try and capture that look.

Chase, she thinks. Beautiful, sweet, perfect Chase.

_You never appreciate what you have, Allison._

She wraps her arms around her waist in the spring air, and attracts another glance from Chase. "No, she never does. She's petty and selfish and stubborn. "I'm glad you agreed to hang out tonight," Cameron says, uncertainly. The words sound strange, like she's forgotten how to speak. She can feel his eyes back on her, the question begging to be asked. _What? Are you…Cameron?_

She might be imagining that look, but she can still feel it hanging there. "I'm glad I came," he says. There's caution in his voice.

"Hope I didn't mess up your plans for tonight," she adds.

Chase laughs. Sarcastic, a tad bitter, maybe? She stops walking again and spins to face him, lacing her fingers together.

"I was hoping that you, at least, had some kind of life," she kids.

"Right," Chase says. "I have so much time for that, working at one o'clock in the morning sometimes.

"No," she agrees. "Neither do I."

"Whose turn is it?" he asks.

Cameron blinks. "Oh," she says. "Yours, I think."

"What do you do with your free time?"

She frowns, slightly. Chase backtracks. "Read or something, right?"

"I read,' she says. "Watch TV. Sometimes I get groceries."

"Full of adventure right there."

"I'm one hell of a partier," she replies.

"Sounds like it."

The light over her apartment door shines in view. Cameron starts searching for keys. Metal hits metal as she unlocks the inside door. Chase holds the door open, his arm above her head. She ducks in the doorway. Chase lets it swing shut behind him.

There are three steps – perhaps four, pushing five – to the door. She's got to unlock the door and then she can leave, run up the stairs and escape the strange feeling that's settled over her, like something's missing. Like she's waiting. A quick jab of anxious excitement hits her and she reels, dizzy. Chase moves to steady her, but she's already firm to the ground when he does.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," she says.

"Yes," Chase agrees. "Good-night."

"Good-night," Cameron says, almost formally. Shyly. Nervously. the shifts in Chase's expression intrigue her. They scare her. They make ask questions, in not so many words, that she shouldn't.

Oh, rule follower that she is.

She longs for the answers she doesn't have or need. She just wants.

Cameron studies the floor – the tiles, the mat, the cream-coloured trim on the border – and then catches Chase's eyes. He stares at her, curious.

Whisper-light, his lips brush her cheek. And he is gone before she can say anything, just a silhouette in the night.

Maybe she invites it, maybe she doesn't. But, later, she is not sorry.


	7. The Question

I apologize for the ridiculously long wait, for this, what happens to be the final chapter. It took a very long time for me to write, and when finished, took a while for me to let go. I'm sad now, because I liked this one, but there are a few plot bunnies hopping around right now, for those interested. Look out!

Thank you, every one for the reviews and encouragement. They mean a lot.

Feedback is loved. Enjoy!

Chapter 7: The Question

The _what if_ hasn't been her companion in a long time – she stopped worrying and started directing her energies to caring – but it invites itself back in stealthily, opening the door so quietly and inching up so she doesn't notice it's there until too late. Cameron embraces it. She might as well.

What if everything turned out differently?

"Everything" is such a vague description.

She rests her cheek on folded hands, hair all over the pillow. Night is the favoured time of the dreaded _what if's_ and it's such a perfect scene: she's alone. The clock reads 1:17 AM. She's awake and restless. And something has happened to make her wonder.

Lights, camera, action.

* * *

"You look like hell," Foreman tells her as she makes a beeline for the coffeepot. 

"Thanks," she says. "Good morning to you, too."

"Just a fact." He flips through some papers.

"It's nothing," Cameron replies.

"Great."

"Where is everyone?" she asks.

Foreman glances at his watch. "It's not eight o'clock yet."

"So, a few hours before House deigns to show up."

"You're in a good mood," he says.

Cameron decides to ignore this. She pours some coffee (still warm; she's fortunate) and sits at the table, hugging the mug. "What are you reading?"

"Cuddy dropped off some case files," he replies. "Pick one, start working."

"And she wants us to…?" she asks.

Foreman points to the taller stack. "These are the ones that haven't been filed yet. This -" he points to the lone file lying beside the pile "- is our new case."

"There's at least a year's worth in that stack," Cameron says.

"He never completes paperwork."

How she hates Foreman's ability to make her feel stupid while telling her things she knows. "And what are we going to do about it?"

"Nothing."

She raises her eyebrows. "Okay."

"'Morning." Chase lets the glass door swing into place again, making the rest of the wall vibrate. Cameron jumps a little more than she meant to. Foreman gives her his characteristic smirk before taking another jolt of coffee.

"Good morning," she replies. It's hard to sound natural, and she's not sure if she manages to pull it off. But no one stares. Safe.

"What's this?" Chase asks.

"Hell," Foreman says.

* * *

It's later, after the taunting and the clinic hours and the mound of paperwork, that Cameron catches Chase alone in the conference room. "Hi," she says, announcing herself as a friendly solider. 

"Hey," he answers.

"What's up?" It's lame and small talk-ish when they have bigger fish to fry, but these are the only words that have found their way to the surface.

"Something you want to talk about?" he asks.

_Oh, Chase_. The thought is a sigh – and she realizes how finely he has attuned himself to her body, her actions, her emotions.

She realizes she's twisting her hands. "I think we should…I mean, I -" She trips and falls over her words. (Why can't she string a sentence together?) "Never mind," she replies, defeated. "I'll catch you later."

Cameron slinks out of the conference room the way she came in: quick, quiet, with her head bowed. This time, there's someone watching.

* * *

He sits on the ledge of the window. A draft works its way into the room, even though they're halfway to summer. The chill settles on his skin, but seems to be happening to someone else. 

_Someone else_. He breaks away from the window, preparing to actually leave. He can see the parking lot from here, watches as cars leave and go.

Chase shuts the door behind him. He thinks of that unsure fleck in Cameron's eyes.

She saw it on a TV show once – two characters sat around snapping pieces of spaghetti. She finds herself sitting on the kitchen floor, sweeping up the raw noodles, wondering what she should do with the wasted pieces. Snapping them – sorry, _bending_ them might be fun. She's so rarely pointless like that.

A piece of spaghetti goes flying across the kitchen, hitting the cupboard. She smiles and picks up another piece.

The doorbell rings.

Cameron lets spaghetti rain to the floor. "I'm coming," she calls. The water is spilling over the pot, bubbling and steaming. "Shit," she mumbles. She turns down the heat and tries to wipe up the puddle.

Her pre-made sauce is burning. Why does she bother?

"Hi," she says, breathlessly, opening the door. It's Chase. "Oh. Hey."

"May I?" he asks.

"Sure," Cameron replies.

Intimate, he thinks. Her shell has fallen around him.

She pads into the kitchen. "Chase," she says slowly, "do you know how to cook?"

He laughs.

* * *

Cameron has to hand it to Chase: he agrees to stay for dinner, he suffers his way through the spaghetti, he lets her chat about nothing. 

He lets her steer.

He gives her some remaining shreds of dignity when she is bared for him to see. (The spaghetti is still all over the kitchen floor; she wouldn't let him go in there.)

"Can I ask you something?" she says.

Chase shrugs. "It's your turn."

Is it? Does she want to keep playing her games? "You didn't really come here for a poorly cooked supper," Cameron says, resting her feet on the coffee table.

"No."

"Why?"

Chase smiles, eerily. Cameron shivers. "I had a feeling," he says, "that you might want to talk."

"About what?" She's being deliberately dense, and she'll hate herself later for it, but right now, she's deriving some small enjoyment from it.

"Cameron," he says. "Allison."

"I'm sorry." She laces her fingers together. She doesn't know what to say. At all. Now. Ever.

"Perhaps I was wrong," he murmurs.

"No!" she bursts out. "No, you weren't."

"Then we should talk."

"Yes, we should."

Silence. Cameron looks at her rug. She likes this particular rug. "Chase," she says, "did you mean everything?"

He tilts his head. "Everything, Cameron?"

"You know what I mean. Expectations. Wanting more."

"Surprisingly, I do." He leans back.

"Chase?" she asks.

"Yeah, I did."

Cameron chews her lip. "Chase," she says again, "I didn't mean it."

He nods. _I understand,_ the action says to her. _All along, I knew._

She ducks her head. _Can you forgive me?_ she wants to yell out. _For _my _everything_.

Why he does, she'll never know.

* * *

Early morning sunlight beams through the window. _Angel rays_. Cameron sits up, holding a hand to her eyes. Shielding, protecting. She forgot to close the blinds again. 

It's strange to be up so early without anywhere to go; today she is off. It's strange to wake up and not be alone.

It's strange to stay.

She leans against the headboard, relaxing. She waits.

It's strange, but it feels right.

Chase shifts, blinking at her blearily. Cameron smiles, a ribbon of happiness curling up inside. "Good morning," she says.

"Good morning," he replies.

Her hair brushes his shoulder as she leans over to kiss him.


End file.
